Chapter Nine #2
“Please.” The word escaped before I could stop it, and I hated myself for the pleading in my voice. “Dante, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
“No. You won’t.” He reached out and hooked his fingers in the waistband of my panties, then tore them down my legs in one swift motion that made me gasp. The lace ripped. “But not because you’re sorry. Because you’ll remember what happens when you disobey me.”
He turned away for a moment, and I heard him moving something. When he faced me again, he held his leather belt -- expensive, Italian, the kind that cost hundreds of dollars and doubled as a weapon when necessary.
My breath caught. “What are you --”
“Turn around. Face the wall. Hands above your head.”
I should have refused. Should have told him to go fuck himself and his belt and his rules. Should have grabbed my dress and walked out.
Instead, I turned around. Raised my hands above my head. Pressed my palms flat against the cool wall and waited for what came next.
I heard him move behind me. Felt his hand between my shoulder blades, pressing me closer to the wall.
Then something cool and metallic touched my wrists -- a hook I hadn’t noticed mounted on the wall, probably meant for hanging coats or bags.
He secured my wrists to it with something that felt like silk rope, testing the bonds to make sure they’d hold without cutting off circulation.
“These will bruise.” His breath was warm against my ear. “The marks will remind you of this moment. Of what it costs to run from me.”
The first strike of the belt landed across my backside with a sharp crack that made me cry out. Not from pain -- not yet -- just from shock at the sudden violence.
The second strike followed immediately after, lower, catching the sensitive underside of my ass where it met my thighs. This one hurt. Real pain that made my eyes water and my breath come in short gasps.
Then his hand. Warm. Soothing. Caressing the spot he’d just struck with a gentleness that made no sense.
“You’re mine, Caterina.” His palm smoothed over the burning skin. “My wife. My property. Mine to punish when you misbehave.”
The belt again. Three strikes in quick succession across my thighs, each one harder than the last. I bit my lip to keep from screaming, tasted copper where my teeth broke skin.
Then his hands again. Both of them this time, kneading the abused flesh, his fingers dipping between my thighs with casual possession.
“And mine to pleasure.” His fingers brushed against me and I felt my body’s betrayal -- wet despite the pain, despite the fear, despite every logical reason to be repulsed by what he was doing. “Your body knows who it belongs to, even if your mind keeps fighting.”
I felt tears slip down my cheeks. Not from the pain. From the humiliation of how my body was responding, how I was already arching into his touch despite myself.
The belt came down again. Again. A rhythm of pain and pleasure that made my head spin. Each strike followed by his hands, by his fingers finding places that made me moan despite wanting to stay silent.
“Tell me who you belong to.” His mouth was against my ear now, his body pressed along my back, one hand between my legs while the other held the belt. “Say it, Caterina.”
“Fuck you.”
He chuckled, dark and low. “Oh, I will. But first, you’re going to admit the truth.”
His fingers pushed inside me, and I couldn’t stop the sound that escaped my throat -- half moan, half sob. He worked me hard, finding exactly the spots that made my legs shake, building pleasure that I desperately didn’t want but couldn’t stop.
“You ran because you’re scared.” His thumb found my clit, circled it with maddening pressure. “Scared of how much you want this. How much you want me to take control. To make all your decisions. To own every part of you.”
“No.” The word came out as barely a whisper.
“Yes.” His fingers curled inside me, hitting a spot that made me see stars. “You’re soaking wet, Caterina. Dripping for me. Your pussy is clenching around my fingers like it’s trying to pull me deeper.”
I pressed my forehead against the wall and felt my resistance crumbling. The pleasure was building too high, too fast. I was going to come and he knew it, could probably feel it in how my inner muscles were starting to flutter around his fingers.
Then he stopped.
Pulled his hand away completely, left me hanging on the edge with a whimper I couldn’t suppress.
“Not yet.” His voice held dark satisfaction. “You don’t get to come until you admit the truth. Until you acknowledge exactly who you belong to.”
He moved away, and I heard the sound of a zipper. Fabric rustling. Then his hands were on my hips, pulling them back, positioning me.
I felt him against my entrance -- hot and hard. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, filling me with a thoroughness that made my breath catch.
“God.” The word escaped as he bottomed out inside me, his hips flush against my abused backside, the pain from the belt strikes mixing with the fullness of him until I couldn’t separate the sensations.
“Not God.” He pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in hard enough to make me gasp. “Me. Say my name, Caterina. Tell me who’s fucking you. Who owns this body.”
He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust deliberate and controlled, hitting spots inside me that made coherent thought impossible. His fingers found my clit again, circling with exactly the pressure I needed while he fucked me against the wall.
The pleasure built higher. Impossibly higher. I was going to shatter, going to break apart completely, and still he didn’t let me tip over the edge.
“Say it.” Another thrust. Another circle of his fingers. “Admit who you belong to and I’ll let you come.”
“Dante.” His name broke out of me like a confession. “Dante, please.”
“Please what?”
“Please let me -- I can’t -- please.” I was begging now, shameless in my need. The pain from the belt strikes had transformed into something else entirely, amplifying every sensation until I existed only in the place where our bodies joined.
“Tell me you’re mine.” His voice was rough now, his control finally starting to slip. “Say the words and I’ll give you what you need.”
Pride warred with desperate need. Pride lost.
“I’m yours.” The words came out broken, barely audible. “I belong to you. Please, Dante, I need --”
“Yes, you do.” His fingers pressed harder against my clit, his thrusts coming faster. “You need me. Need this. Need to be owned and controlled and fucked until you can’t remember your own name.”
His teeth found my shoulder, biting hard enough to mark.
That pushed me over the edge -- the pain and pleasure combining into something that made me scream as the orgasm tore through me.
Wave after wave of it, my body clenching around him while he kept fucking me through it, drawing it out until I was sobbing.
He followed seconds later, his rhythm faltering as he came inside me with a groan against my shoulder. We stayed like that for a moment -- him buried deep, me pinned against the wall, both of us breathing hard.
Then he pulled out carefully and reached up to untie my wrists. My arms fell to my sides, muscles screaming from being held above my head. I couldn’t stand on my own. My legs had turned to water.
Dante caught me before I fell, lifting me easily and carrying me to the leather couch. He laid me down with surprising gentleness, then draped his jacket over my naked body.
I curled into myself, my body still shaking with aftershocks, my mind trying to process what had just happened. What I’d admitted. What I’d let him do.
He sat on the edge of the couch and brushed my hair back from my face. His expression had softened slightly, though his eyes still held that dark satisfaction.
“Next time you feel the need to run,” he said quietly, “remember what awaits you when I catch you.”
I closed my eyes and felt fresh tears slip down my temples.
Because the worst part wasn’t the punishment. Wasn’t the pain or the degradation or the way he’d reduced me to begging.
The worst part was that I’d meant what I’d said.
I was his.
And some traitorous part of me didn’t want to be anything else.
Dante helped me in silence, providing a conservative dress.
My hands weren’t cooperating, still shaking from the aftermath, so he did most of the work -- guiding my arms through sleeves, fastening the zipper, smoothing fabric over skin that felt raw and oversensitive.
The torn panties went into the trash. The dress -- my symbol of freedom -- he folded carefully before tucking it under his arm like evidence.
“Can you walk?” His voice had returned to that measured calm, like he hadn’t just fucked me against a wall while I begged for release.
I tried to stand. My legs wobbled, threatening to give out completely. Before I could fall, he lifted me -- one arm under my knees, the other supporting my back. Carried me like I weighed nothing.
The bar’s back exit led to an alley where a black car waited, engine running. His driver stood by the open rear door, his expression carefully neutral. He’d seen this before, probably. Women being carried from private rooms by powerful men. Nothing unusual in his world.
Dante settled me in the back seat and slid in beside me. The door closed with a soft click that felt final, sealing me back into the life I’d tried to escape.
The drive back was silent. I pressed my face against the cool window and watched the city pass -- the shopping district where I’d felt free for three hours, the café where I’d drunk espresso just to be somewhere else, the streets I’d walked thinking I’d actually escaped.
All of it already feeling like a dream. Or a nightmare.
My body ached. Not just from the belt strikes, though those throbbed with every small movement. From everything. From being held in place, the intensity of the orgasm he’d wrung from me, and the way I’d broken apart and admitted truths I’d wanted to keep buried.